Chapter 5 - Ghosts of the Astoria Fire
Adrian didn't draw his weapon, but his hand remained locked over the grip of the pistol in his holster, his knuckles turning white.
"You died," Adrian said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a tumult of emotions he hadn't felt in nearly two decades: shock, betrayal, anger, and a deep, burning relief. "We buried an empty box in the family plot. Uncle Victor identified the dental records from the warehouse rubble."
Julian let out a harsh, rasping laugh that ended in a sharp cough. He leaned his weight against the damp concrete wall, wincing slightly as though an old wound was acting up in the damp air.
"Uncle Victor wanted the North Coast shipping routes clear so he could sell them to the Seattle syndicate," Julian said bitterly, pulling a battered metal cigarette case from his coat pocket and flicking it open with one thumb. "A convenient fire was the easiest way to get rid of two nephews who were asking too many questions about where the cartel's drug money was really being laundered."
"Victor swore you stayed behind to cover the rear," Adrian said, stepping down onto the top concrete step, his eyes never leaving his brother's face.
"I did," Julian replied, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette with a battered Zippo lighter. The flare of the flame illuminated the harsh, scarred angles of his face. "And when the roof collapsed, Victor’s enforcers were waiting outside with crowbars to make sure I didn't crawl back out through the loading chute. They tossed me into the back of a refrigerated truck and dumped me fifty miles up the coast in a logging camp hospital run by a crooked doctor who owed our uncle a favor."
"Why didn't you come back?" Adrian demanded, stepping down another stair, the space between them closing. "Why stay hidden in the woods like an animal for eighteen years while I took over the family, fought three syndicate wars, and carried your ghost on my back?"
Julian took a long, slow drag off his cigarette, exhaling a thin cloud of gray smoke into the damp air of the bunker.
"Because the moment I walked back onto Blackridge property alive, Victor would have known," Julian said calmly. "And more importantly... I watched what you became, little brother."
Adrian stopped. The words struck him harder than a physical blow.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Adrian asked stiffly.
"You built an empire on blood, fear, and ledgers," Julian said, his gray eyes locking onto Adrian’s with unflinching intensity. "You became the very thing our father and Uncle Victor were. For a long time, I watched from the trees, wondering if there was anything left of the kid I pulled out of that warehouse. But then... then I watched how you treat the people who work for you. I watched how you look out for that little housekeeper and her boy."
"Noah," Adrian said quietly.
"Yeah," Julian nodded. "Noah. He reminds me of you when you were four. Before the syndicate, before the blood, before we learned how to hold a gun before a book." Julian’s expression softened just a fraction. "I couldn't come to the house, Adrian. Victor’s people still have ears in the local sheriff's department. But when I saw that crew from Seattle sniffing around the southern perimeter three weeks ago, looking for a way to infiltrate the estate... I had to step in."
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Adrian’s eyes narrowed instantly. "Seattle? What crew?"
"Vance’s men," Julian said, dropping his cigarette onto the concrete and crushing it beneath his heavy boot. "They aren't just here for timber contracts anymore, Adrian. They’re planning a hit on Blackridge House. And they think your new housekeeper is the soft spot in your armor."
